Count Scar - SA by C. Dale Brittain, Robert A. Bouchard Page A

toward the chapel. "Do you suspect others of stealing from you?" he asked. "If you are planning to horse-whip all the thieves, you might prefer to have certain knowledge that your suspicions are accurate. And there— Well, magic can help."
    We stopped while I looked at him more thoroughly. About my age and about my height, with the air of assurance that all priests have that they are doing precisely the right thing at all times, but with an intelligence and an intensity behind it that I had not seen in many priests. "Divination," I asked slowly, "isn't that what they call it? The power to see what is hidden?"
    "That is correct."
    "So are you going to tell me the boy hadn't been robbing me?"
    "Oh, no." He turned to continue again toward the chapel. "I practiced no magic here. Some of the older masters of our Order can practice their particular art wherever they are, but I need my vials and powders and my books even to begin. In this case— When you had his confession, divination seemed scarcely necessary. I hope to begin unpacking immediately after divine service so that I may continue my studies while here."
    "You might try to find out," I suggested, "why the late countess fell off a rampart she should have known as well as she knew her own image in the mirror."
    His eyes met mine for a second, his expression a mix of intensity and of the curious reluctance I had seen before. "The provost of my Order," he said slowly, "suggested the same thing."
    In the next few days the castle began settling into a comfortable routine. Brother Melchior sang the divine office in the chapel each morning as yellow dawn broke over the mountain peaks, and I saw to it that no one overslept more than once. Leading a castle, I decided, was no harder than leading men into battle—easier, because I didn't have to deal with raw terror, either theirs or mine.
    "I wish there was some sort of map or plan of Peyrefixade," I said to Seneschal Guilhem on the second day. "I think I know where all the principal chambers are now, but I'm still not sure of the extent of the store rooms, and that old part of the castle around to the back is very confusing."
    Guilhem gave me the lugubrious look that seemed customary with him. "You might ask the bouteillier. He was making a map."
    Surprised, I sent for Bouteillier Raymbaud. The seneschal's responsibilities were the castle itself and its income, and I would have thought the bouteillier had plenty to do supervising the staff and the wine cellars. Maybe, I thought with an inner smile, he had his eye on the seneschals position if Guilhem became too ill to continue his duties.
    "Raymbaud's only been here since shortly before the countess took over," Bruno informed me while we waited for him. He seemed to be seeking out information about Peyrefixade as assiduously as I was, and it helped that his information was different. "The duke recommended him when she and Lord Thierri were married, but the rest of the knights and the staff have all been here since the days when old Count Bernhard still ruled."
    Raymbaud was a young man with a courtier's grace but a heavy accent in speaking the Royal Tongue. Or not a heavy accent, I corrected myself, because he didn't sound anything like the cook's fool assistant, but his intonation differed from that of the rest of the staff in ways my northern ear could not yet clearly identify.
    "Of course, my lord, I would be delighted to show you my map," he said with a dip of the head. "During the empty and sorrowful days this winter after the countess's tragic death, when we did not even know yet that the duke had sent for you, I was able to keep my mind focused by mapping every room, every corridor, every stone."
    I had expected some rough sketch and was stunned when he produced what appeared to be a completely realistic image of the castle, such as an eagle might see in flying over it. It was not even a single sheet of parchment but an intricate series of flaps and folds, which one could